You hear the voices outside; calling, screaming, panicked. There is one voice that rises above everyone else’s. A voice you know well.

“What’s going on?” he demands. “What are you all looking at?”

You come up behind him as he shouts from the open front door. You are quiet and tentative. Will he think you are trying to sneak up on him? You’re not trying to but it might make him angry. You make your footsteps louder so he can hear you coming before you stand beside his towering form.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. He hates when you speak so quietly. You want to go back and say it louder so you don’t annoy him but it’s too late for that.

“It’s none of your business!” He snaps at you and you cower against the door frame. You silently beg him to put his rage at another target.

“I’m sorry.” You try to pacify him.

“Get back in the house!” He roughly grabs your arm and shoves you back before he leaves and slams the door.

His fingerprints are embedded as bruises on your arm. You tell yourself to ignore it. He didn’t mean it. He loves you. He never meant any of it.

You go to the window, looking out at the yard. It is not the chaos that the sounds indicated it was. The neatly mowed lawn is perfect just like he wants it. Each rose bush is identical, all of the grass is the same length, everything is a bright green, all of it is in perfect order.

But then you notice one blemish; the shocking black mark by one of the rose bushes. The black stain is slowly spreading and growing on the lawn. Its source is pale and smooth like fine porcelain.

The source that is causing that black mark is swathed in white. The source is crumpled and twisted awkwardly. The source is unmoving even as the marring blackness spreads further and further, killing the grass in its path. The source is a dead woman.

Her face is hidden by the rose bush, her arms held above her head in defeat, her legs kicked out from under her, and her body leaking deep, red blood that turns to black as it touches the ground and stains her white robe.

You can’t help but wonder who she is. Who is this woman who is ruining the perfection you work so hard to maintain for him? Who is this lamb to the slaughter?

The sirens berate your ears in throbbing patterns. Three police cars have arrived, followed closely by a wailing ambulance. The red and blue lights dance around your eyes, pulsing with more life than your own heart.

He is snapping at the officers as they leave their cars, demanding to know what is going on. Why are these people in his yard? Why do they care? Why can’t they leave him alone?

But what are they doing now? The officers slam him against the hood of the sedan that he drives to work every day; the one that you are happy to see leave in the morning and the one that you nervously anticipate at night. They cuff his hands behind his back and force him into one of the police cars.

What are they doing?! Why are they taking him away?! Are you afraid or are you excited? What are you feeling? How are you supposed to know?

You finally gather the courage to leave the house as they take him away, his screams and shouts of anger permeating the air through the windows of the white vehicles. You can see his silhouette through the glass, his body jerking violently. You fling the door open and run the first few steps but your bravery ends there.

What are you doing? He told you to stay in the house. He told you this was none of your business.

You force the feelings down when you see it. What is that on her arm? It stands out like her blood on the lawn. Five identical blue marks in precise order and arrangement on the frozen skin.

A throbbing begins in your own arm as you get closer and closer to her. Her face is still hidden by the roses but you know. How couldn’t you have seen it before? It was so obvious. How could you be so stupid? He always told you that you were stupid. He was always right.

You kneel beside her and hold up your arm next to hers. To your horror yet calm recognition you see that marks on her arm match the marks on yours.